


Blister and Bullet Hole

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Grinding, Injury, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, he should probably be at the hospital, soft walker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26728360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: It’s all out in the open now. He should’ve known he couldn’t hide his true self forever.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Blister and Bullet Hole

At this point all he can do is gain your regard; he couldn’t possibly lose any more. To be, suddenly, faced with the nature of his work, to see his careful constructions stripped back to reveal not August the agent, nor even August the lover but August the man: this, truly, draws a sharp and sudden line between you. 

“No hospital,“ he said, sagging through the doorway. “No hospital,” he’d repeated, leaving a bloody trail down the hall. He’d peeled away his shirt with a grunt of effort and found one, two, three bullet wounds, leaking and dribbling all down his torso. “No—“ but he collapsed onto his knees before he could get the rest of the words out. 

No hospital. “Yeah. I get it,“ you’d muttered, trying to shove your worry down under sarcasm. He’s breathing hard and slow, metronome-steady. And none of this seems like a desk jockey’s reaction, CIA or no. _A lot of time at the gym, my ass._ He’s trying to chuckle a little at that but it turns into a gurgling cough. 

“Hey. Hey. You gotta— here. Here’s what you’ve gotta do.” And he starts to talk, in measured tones as he’s trying not to move his chest too much. As you’re scared and seething, but following his directions. Finding his tools in their secret compartment above the closet shelf. Boiling the water. Digging into the wounds, removing one, two, three bullets while he tries and mostly succeeds at not whining at the pain.

The stitches are harder still, lumpy and ill-formed, and when they are finished he casts a critical eye downward, opening his mouth like he’s about to fucking say something. 

Your slap connects with the side of his face before either of you realizes what’s happening. And when it does you stare, certain this strange new August is about to annihilate you. But instead his eyes seem to darken and his mouth drops open in a soft and secret _oh,_ and he reaches for you. 

And “god, no, lie back down, you’re hurt, fuck, what are you doing?” But he’s staring at you like he’s just unlocked some great secret, and his hands are clenching in the sheets, and you are suddenly, ferociously aware of how terribly hard he is, tenting his ruined trousers, brushing against your arm as you lean to set your first-aid supplies on the side table. 

The groan he lets out at the contact is no longer bitten back but full and throaty, and hidden in it are the words _god_ and _yes_ and _fuck yes._ And, well, in for a penny, right? You can always leave him in the morning. But he stops you, when you shimmy out of your clothes and move to help him out of his. He directs you over his hand where it lays outstretched on the bed, _up, a little further, please,_ until you’re straddling his bicep and he can curl his hand up and behind you, can brace his forearm behind your back and stroke your shoulder blades with calloused fingers as you get the idea. 

It’s good, it’s so fucking good, the way he tenses his bicep to fit just so between your legs, the way he pants a little at the shine you leave as you move, even the way he gasps and groans as you can’t help but bump against his chest now and again, as the effort strains him and draws little beads of blood from in between his stitches. And he doesn’t make a move to touch himself, except to open his fly with his free hand, relieving pressure even if it isn’t enough. 

Is this penance? Maybe it is, but if he’s somehow punishing himself he’s so very into it. He wreathes himself in his transgressions, reveling in holding himself back to drive you forward. The strain is evident in his eyes and yet all he does is watch you as you ride his arm. He knows when you see it, too, when the last layer is peeled back and you see the scope of him, the great writhing, seething anger and fear and hope and hate. You see it, that little crack deep in his center, that little hole shining with cloudlight and something small and precious. And as you lean down to kiss him, you hook your fingers into that crack and pull it open, and with a cry and a curse he falls through.


End file.
